Wednesday, August 24, 2011

tiny dancer

When I was little, I danced in front of the mirror. The mirror showed me who I was. The reflection of grace brought the permanence of confidence. I LOVED. to dance. The way dance made me feel was undeniably the revelation of God’s love in my life. Does this statement make sense to you at all? It’s very clear in my conscience. As I moved, God moved me. I knew this. My life belonged to Him when I danced. Fully. When I was old enough to hit the stage, my dance remained worship. It was choreographed and paced to the time of an unknown amount of secular songs but it remained worship. God remained the great Mover of my soul in dance. As I spotted each turn and held each prolonged arabesque, the extensions of my legs could not compare to the extension of my grateful heart for the opportunity to move for Him. I knew who I was when I danced. No adolescent insecurity could topple my releve of heart. The wooden floor felt like a pedestal of great potential and the curtain fall, only led to the preparation for my next steps. There was never closure to that moment, only the opening door of the next daring dance. God’s ministry to my soul, was the very beautifully free-flowing movement that painted its’ own creative captivating canvas on the available stage. This makes sense only to the connected viewer, the one that is moved by its’ motion.  I danced for joy. I danced in peace. Triumph fell from my toes and solidity from my hands. Nothing was completed or accomplished without hard work and nothing felt to me more like fun. It was a gift and nothing of my own. I was not anywhere close to the best. I just LOVED. to dance. And dance for Jesus, I did. Just a gift.

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